


Chasing Daylight

by stardropdream



Category: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:37:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kamui is so hungry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chasing Daylight

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ October 27, 2010.

**I.**  
  
He was doing it on purpose. He absolutely had to be doing it on purpose. They’d gone years fighting each other, and never once had Fuuma allowed Kamui to lay a hand on him for long. He’d let him lay a few punches here and there, deflecting them with practiced ease that served only to ignite Kamui’s irritation. But Kamui had made a promise to himself not to divulge his true strength, and so far he’d spent the years masking his true identity to his teammates and especially to his enemies. This meant curbing his strength most of the time, moving slower, letting himself linger slightly after what a human would consider a near fatal attack. He’d become a practiced actor in that respect, and liked to think he gave a convincing argument to the humans he somehow led now, made them believe that their leader was just as human as they were. If they had suspicions, they kept them to themselves.   
  
But this man—he was always pressing against Kamui’s “human” façade. He moved swiftly, easily dodging attacks, even the ones that Kamui admitted silently to himself were above-human in skill, strength, and speed. But Fuuma dodged them all, cheerfully so in fact. He dodged them easily with that aggravating smile of his, as if amused by Kamui’s antics.   
  
But lately, the dodges seemed almost slower. Fuuma let “human” Kamui touch him, as if searching for something else. The punches lingered, the kicks to the side bruised. Fuuma smiled at him, just as he always did, as if he could see straight through Kamui to all his secrets, see into every corner of Kamui’s heart and mind, all the while keeping himself guarded. And Kamui, naturally, did not like this invasion of privacy, how this man seemed to know so much while they said so little.   
  
And the day he struck him hard enough that his lip split was the day that Fuuma’s smile seemed the most genuine, seemed the widest. He thumbed at his bottom lip, licked at it with a tongue pinked by the blood, tasting the metallic grit. He smiled at Kamui and Kamui froze, his nostrils flaring once and his eyes narrowing. He felt the flash in his eyes, felt the moment that the blue bled to gold just as easily as Fuuma’s lip bled. But he slammed his eyes shut, inhaled sharply, felt the bitter sunlight battling against his eyelids.   
  
When he opened them again, Fuuma was smiling at him, blood pooling in the dip of his lip and overflowing down his chin.   
  
“What?” Kamui hissed, tersely.   
  
Fuuma didn’t speak right away, his eyes locked on Kamui’s eyes. Kamui wanted to look away but refused that weakness, no matter how much he feared his eyes would burn golden again, or, worse, he would look down at Fuuma’s mouth and feel his pupils dilate as they did when he fed.   
  
He was so hungry. He’d deprived himself for years on a proper meal. He could last weeks without having to eat, but a steady supply of blood was good for keeping up strength and mindset. Kamui had limited himself to the monsters out in the night or corpses. Neither of which were desirable—monster blood tasted bitter, acidic, and corpses had to be fresh otherwise it was no good, and even then nothing could beat the taste of living blood, of having a donor rather than a victim.   
  
“Nothing,” Kamui said at last, once he realized Fuuma was waiting for an answer. “You’re bleeding.”  
  
“You hit me,” Fuuma agreed, smiling pleasantly as if being struck in the face was not something to be upset about. Kamui could not even begin to understand this human—crazy, perhaps, something missing inside that head of his. But his eyes were far too keen to be ignorant, to be unintelligent. This man was something Kamui should avoid, and knew it.   
  
Kamui said nothing as Fuuma began to smile, blood dripping from his lip. His tongue pressed over his bottom lip absently, collecting blood into his mouth nonchalantly. Kamui wondered if Fuuma had any idea what he was even _doing_ to Kamui. And when Kamui’s eyes flickered up to meet Fuuma’s again, he knew that the man knew—the man knew _something._   
  
Kamui fired his crossbow at Fuuma, just to see the man dance. And dance he did, swaying away with a devilish, all too knowing laugh.   
  
  
**II.**  
  
The blood fell down his face, little rivers of red. The scrape across his cheek had to sting, Kamui thought, and then decided it was a good thing. Or a bad thing.   
  
Perhaps a bad thing. Fuuma was purposefully slowing himself down, purposefully having Kamui cut him—make him bleed. To what purpose, Kamui did not wish to explore. But all that mattered was that it was happening—and before Kamui knew it, he was pulling his punches, purposefully aiming his crossbow so it missed Fuuma completely, instead of grazed his arm and left him to bleed. Fuuma must have noticed, because he became faster again, attempted to catch Kamui off-guard.  
  
It happened like that. One would slow down, the other would speed up. Constantly accommodating one another—and it all ended the same.  
  
Fuuma’s blood singing in Kamui’s ears.   
  
Kamui slammed Fuuma to the wall, pinned him with a soft hiss that was not human. “Why are you letting me hit you?”  
  
Fuuma looked at him, smiled that low smile. Kamui’s eyes were on the way the blood on his cheek flowed steadily downward, down the line of his jaw, under his chin, where it dripped one small drop by one small drop, onto his shirt or onto the ground. Kamui’s eyes stared at the dripping blood, watched every delicate drop of precious food wasted. He wondered, not for the first time, what this human would taste like.  
  
Kamui forced his eyes up to Fuuma’s face, away from his chin, before his eyes could flash golden with his hunger.  
  
“Why?” he asked again, when Fuuma did not offer an answer.   
  
“Don’t you like it?” Fuuma asked, and smiled widely, his eyes glittering, but hard.  
  
Kamui stared at him. “No.”  
  
“I think you do,” Fuuma said, nonchalant, smiling that _knowing_ smile. Their eyes met, Kamui’s narrowed, suppressing the urge to bleed golden, Fuuma’s pleasant over the rims of his glasses, but all-too-knowing. “I think,” Fuuma said, slowly, his words as gritted as the sandstorms outside, “You’re hungry.”  
  
Kamui reeled back, just a little.   
  
“I have no idea what you mean,” he hissed, shoved at Fuuma with his knee into his gut, until the man was slouched, falling to one knee. Fuuma wheezed out a laugh, and more blood fell onto the ground. Kamui’s eyes lingered, knowing that the human’s lifeline would seep into the dirt, rust, be useless. He was so hungry.   
  
“But you do,” Fuuma laughed. He looked up, hair in his eyes, but lips quirked into a smile. “And you also know I’m right.”   
  
This time, Kamui knew his eyes were golden as he kicked him in the side of the head so that his face whipped to the side—out of his line of sight—and retreated.   
  
  
**III.**  
  
The hunger was too great. He’d hunt for corpses all night, if he had to.  
  
The hunger pains were too much, his eyes were burning too harshly for human blood.   
  
And the only thing he could think was, _There is willing prey, there is willing prey, there is willing prey—even if it’s him…_   
  
  
**IV.**  
  
Kamui slammed Fuuma against the wall again, not caring that his eyes are golden.  
  
“So,” he said, as preamble, “You know what I am.”  
  
“You’re very bad at hiding it,” Fuuma agreed.  
  
Kamui’s eyes narrowed. Fuuma smiled, and put up a nominal struggle against Kamui’s hold on him—and quickly stopped when Kamui tightened his grip, stepped closer.   
  
“And you,” Kamui said slowly, eyes sweeping down the slope of Fuuma’s neck, “have gotten it into that foolish _human_ head of yours that you’d like for me to drink from you.”   
  
“Perhaps,” Fuuma agreed, still smiling.   
  
“But,” Kamui practically _purred_ , “Who’d have known that you were so foolish?”  
  
“And how do you figure that?”  
  
“It’s not often that prey will come to the hunter.”   
  
Fuuma was quiet for a moment, and seemed as if his smile almost widened, but when Kamui actually focused his attention on the smile, it was still just as flat and obnoxious as always—the low smile, the knowing smile. How he wished he could wipe that smile off his face—see this human’s expressions when he was unamused.   
  
“No, I suppose not.”  
  
“And now,” Kamui said, slowly, elongating one nail, very slowly, pressing it against his neck. “I wonder where I should drink?”   
  
Fuuma didn’t say anything.  
  
Kamui almost smiled. “Wherever there’s a major artery… I’ll get the most blood-flow. The neck?” The nail slipped under Fuuma’s arm. “Here?” And then the nail slid slowly, without cutting, down the length of Fuuma’s torso, along his thigh, and rested there. “The leg? The…”   
  
As his hand started to press towards Fuuma’s groin, a hand whipped out and grabbed Kamui’s wrist. And tugged him close, slouching down just slightly so that their eyes meet. “The neck should be fine, Kamui.”   
  
Kamui didn’t answer right away, merely curled his fingers around Fuuma’s shoulders.   
  
“If you insist.”   
  
Quicker than any of his own movements, Kamui sank his fangs into Fuuma’s neck, piercing the skin and thrilling in the way that Fuuma’s breath hitched for just a moment—so there was something that could breach the human’s wall of smiles. He drank—  
  
He’d been so hungry.


End file.
